Hugo watches through the bars as the snow drifts gently down. Out in the distance, somewhere beyond the fog that encircles Arkham, the citizens of Gotham prepare for that special day. The one day of the year they can feel safe from the insane antics of the so-called 'Rogues Gallery'.
A gallery of which Hugo himself is now a reluctant part.
Returning to his cot, he ponders the phenomenon and all its manifestations. The myriad ways in which it is observed, both religiously and commercially. Right now, he knows, the streets of the art-deco city would be awash with color. Christmas decorations would adorn every storefront, every home. In these dark times, few forgo the chance for festivity.
The cot creaks under his considerable weight as he positions himself better for the microphone he had been afforded. He would have preferred a pen and paper to make his notes, but the asylum doctors have deemed him too dangerous to be left alone with basic stationary. Even a pencil could become a tool in his hands.
The former doctor takes it as a compliment.
Instead, he has been provided with a Dictaphone, though the device itself is out of his reach. It too, in the staff's opinion, could be weaponized by one with Hugo's superior intellect. Little do they know, the disgraced psychiatrist is merely biding his time, concocting a new plan for his next, inevitable, encounter with the Batman.
Clearing his throat, he continues his latest monologue, compiling his observations on the seasonal ceasefire that even the most unhinged of Arkham's inmates observes.
"The importance of the date, this one day of the year, must go beyond simple convention. Merely electing a day for celebration is not, in itself, enough. A bank holiday alone does not explain the quite fantastic occurrences observed each year.
"Without fail there is a lull in violence and crime at this time of year. While it is not by any means absent, there is an undeniable proclivity to maintain the spirit of the season. To keep the date as pure as the fresh winter snow.
"And in place of those dark deeds, to which we have become so accustomed, charity and altruism abound. Even in this neo-gothic cesspool of criminal activity, the notion exists: good will to all men."
Hugo steeples his finger, squinting as if to gain a clearer view of the subject of his analysis. Taking a deep breath, he considers his city and its residents. In his mind's eye he conjured the looming buildings, the winding alleys and narrow streets. He pictures the gargoyles perched upon the battlements of Old Gotham, ineffective wards against a deep-seated evil.
"How stark the contrast is then," he dictates. "When our fair city embraces the light and jovial. When smiles are neither façade nor side-effect. How, I hazard to ask, is this transformation possible in the current climate of fear and hopelessness?
"One must ponder the power of this season, the durability of its inexplicable light, if one is to truly examine Gotham's dark heart."
Outside, the winds are rising, sending the snow into a flurry. A sharp whistle echoes around the cell as the cold air permeates. The stone walls are bare, undecorated and unforgiving. It is not simply part of his punishment. Not even a debt to society incurs the loss of Christmas.
On another level, the inmates, under heavy supervision, enjoy what they can of the holiday season. Separated from their loved ones, for those that have any, this is the time of year the loss is most heavily felt.
For villains such as Firebug and Cluemaster, Two-face and Mr. Freeze, this is a painful time. And yet, they hold it in reverence. Even Mad Hatter, holding out hope for a card from his dear, non-existent Alice.
"Against all expectations, the most vile and despicable miscreants of this urban wasteland continue to put aside their grievances to observe this holiday. The exceptions are notable for their grandiosity. Indeed, a crime staged on Christmas Day, or Eve, is a statement, a message to be taken most seriously. It is the most heinous of deeds.
"Calendar Man himself, infamous for marking dates has only infrequently made use of this most famous of holidays. Most surprisingly, Joker, the most deranged mind I have ever encountered, seems equally reluctant to spread his own twisted brand of merriment during the jolly season. Again, the exceptions are… spectacular."
Rising from his cot, Hugo begins to pace, slowly backward and forward within the confines of his cell. Almost photographically he recalls those few exceptions, the Christmas Day crimes. There was a hatred, an anger perhaps, that fuelled those sprees. A sense of purpose to override the need for peace.
"The crux of the matter is this: what is it about Christmas that inspires hope and charity and love and all the good in men, and so effectively discourages our baser instincts, in even our most immoral men?
"Take, for instance, the Christmas Truce. At that time, in 1914, opposing sides, bitter rivals, hated enemies, laid down their weapons to celebrate together. Through the blood and dirt in the trenches, despite all propaganda teaching to the contrary, they came to the realization that they were not so different. The Axis and the Allies, the French and the Germans. All were equal. All are men.
"How, I wonder.
"The answer is, as yet, illusive. Can it be a simple matter of indoctrination? In this godless civilization, surely religion has no sway. These heathen have no concept of right and wrong. Superstitious though they may be, heaven and hell are not matters of reflection for the common fiend, much less the unhinged madman.
"A cultural trend, then? Do the expectations of a Winter Solstice weigh so heavily on our minds that we conform without conscious awareness of our proliferation of the myth? Or is man in a suit truly so inspiring?
"If so, the ramifications are innumerable. Wouldn't you agree…Batman?"
Hugo turns to stare at the watching figure at the window, lurking beyond the bars. Ice-cold eyes regard him contemptuously in return. Frost glimmers on the vigilante's shoulders and a thin mist escapes his lips with every breath.
"Did you consider, Doctor, that it's not the man, nor the suit, but the idea?" Batman intoned. "The notion that good will always win out. That evil will always lose."
As quickly and silently as he appeared, the Detective was gone again, back into the darkness, the fog and the snow. Back into the trenches of his war. But there would be no ceasefire. Not from Hugo Strange at least.
"Hmm," the doctor mused. "The idea…"